On a Knife's Edge (7 page)

“Yes,” Jarvis replied.

“When it go from two lanes to four?”

She smirked. “When you were in prison.”

They passed the sign welcoming people to Stardust, Nevada,
population ten thousand and twelve.

Ten thousand
? When Lynch went inside, barely four
thousand people lived here. Gas stations and fast food places dotted the side
of the road. A subdivision, with expensive looking houses, occupied the field
where he and his buddies used to play baseball. And instead of the stand of
old-growth oak trees, a huge industrial park stretched out almost to the base
of the nearest mountain. He remembered carving his and Shasta’s initials in one
massive trunk…

Everything had changed. The reality of all that he’d missed
hit him hard. But what the hell did he expect? For Stardust to remain in a time
warp where nothing changed? He certainly hadn’t.

A very different person rode into Stardust than who left
seven years ago. A smarter person, for sure, and a more cautious one.

And a narc.

The car’s GPS navigated them through Stardust. Soon, the
neighborhoods became more recognizable. Lynch’s pulse increased and his gut
contracted when Jarvis made the final turn onto his mom’s street.

Cars and Harleys lined the narrow avenue, with a conspicuous
spot vacant right in front of the white and beige, single-story, clapboard
house. Jarvis eased into the space and killed the engine.

Heavy metal music and raucous laughter spilled from the
residence. At least this looked—and sounded—the same. Lynch climbed out, barely
noticing his stiff muscles from hours of riding in a car. He gazed at his
childhood home. Jarvis and Newman joined him.

Jarvis nudged his shoulder. “Remember to stick to the story
about your release. No one can suspect anything else. Got it?”

“Got it.”

Lynch licked his suddenly dry lips and led the way up the
tiered front walk. The evening breeze raised the hairs on his skin. His heart
thumped in time to the bass guitar. A fluttery sensation filled his stomach
when he gripped the door knob and twisted.

Half a dozen older versions of Streeter members, some with
old ladies he remembered, some he didn't, stared at him from beneath a
Welcome
Home
banner that stretched across the living room wall. Someone switched
off the stereo. The resulting silence crashed down on Lynch.

Then a swarm descended on him.

Amid whoops and cheers, arms clasped him while hands slapped
his back. Smiling and nodding, he accepted the boisterous welcomes when a
shriek all but shattered his eardrums.

 
“Lynch!”
A petite woman with short, frosted brown
hair rushed forward and launched herself at him, nearly strangling him in the
process. “You’re home…oh thank God. Thank God. Thank God. Thank God.”

He returned his mother’s hug as the faint fragrance of her
citrusy perfume filled his senses. He buried his face in her shoulder, blinking
furiously at the sting in his eyes. His chest squeezed. When had she had gotten
so small?

She pulled back and took firm possession of his hand. Tears
ran down her cheeks as her soft blue eyes searched his face, like she couldn’t
believe he was there. He couldn’t believe it either. Her gaze slipped to
Jarvis. He’d forgotten the agent stood beside him.

He moved to the side. “Uh, Mom, these my…attorney.”

Jarvis extended her hand. “Emma Jarvis. It’s a pleasure to
meet you Mrs. Callan.”

His mother shook it. “I've never been a Mrs., so call me
Edie.”

Jarvis smiled. “All right…Edie. And this is my associate,”
she indicted Newman who filled the doorway, “Sam Newman.”

The agent nodded. “Ma’am.”

Edie peered down her nose at him. Tough to do when you’re
five foot three and staring up at a man six foot plus, but Lynch’s mom managed
it just fine.

She huffed. “I’m no more a ma’am than I am a Mrs.” She gave
his “attorney” an appraising perusal. “You don’t look like a stuffy a lawyer
type.”

Jarvis laughed, an inviting tinkle which didn't sound the
least bit forced. “I assure you I am a lawyer, Edie, though hopefully not the
stuffy type. And Sam’s a private investigator who’ll help ferret out the truth
about your son’s case.”

Lynch fought to keep his mouth from dropping open at the
smoothness with which Jarvis lied.

“Good.” His mother nodded once. “I’m glad
someone
finally realized my son’s innocent of those charges.” She turned a critical eye
to Lynch. “Did they feed you in the last seven years?” Her palms rested on
either side of his waist. “Look at this…you’re no bigger around than a rail.”

With a grimace, he shooed her hands away. “Ma,” he protested.
“Don’t fuss.”

“Don’t fuss?” She planted her fists on her hips. “Don’t
fuss? I’m your mother, Lynch Abraham Callan. I’ll fuss any time I please.”

“Ah listen to the boy, Edie,” a voice boomed. “And don’t
fuss.”

Lynch would know the owner of that voice anywhere. He
turned, and Rolo Pruett, the barrel-chested president of the Streeters, strode
from the kitchen. Always a stout man, the seams of Rolo’s cut jacket were
stretched tighter than usual across his increased girth.

With his easy smile, big belly, white bushy beard and
hairline that reached the top of his head, Rolo resembled a kindly Santa Claus.
But anyone who underestimated him would regret that fatal mistake because under
that loveable façade beat the heart of a ruthless gang leader.

Rolo enclosed Lynch in a manly bear hug. “Welcome home,
brother,” he whispered.

More tears gathered in Lynch’s eyes, but he collected his
wits and smacked the other man’s back then stepped away.

Rolo offered his hand to Jarvis. “Rolo Pruett.”

Jarvis’s smile remained frozen as she shook it. “Emma
Jarvis. And Sam Newman.”

After shaking Newman’s hand, Rolo draped his arm around
Lynch’s shoulders. “We can’t thank you enough for bringing our boy home.
There’s a keg out back and burgers on the grill. We’d be honored to have you
stay for dinner.”

“Thank you,” Jarvis said, “but it’s been a long day and—”

“Have you eaten?” Edie asked.

“No, however—”

“It’s settled.” His mom commandeered Jarvis and Newman’s
wrists. “You’re staying.” She marched them toward the kitchen. “This is a
party, goddamn it. So we're gonna have
fun
.”

Lynch smiled. Those poor agents…they never saw his mom
coming. He turned to Rolo, but caught a glimpse of unruly, blond dreadlocks and
scruffy beard. The lump in his throat increased as his composure again threatened
to crack.

Hez lingered in the hallway.

Rolo followed his gaze and moved back. Hez came forward.

Always taller and thicker than Lynch, Hez looked even more
so now. He grinned that lopsided grin of his and playfully punched Lynch’s arm.
“How’s it going? Gotten laid lately?”

Lynch laughed and a tear ran down his cheek. “More often
than you.” He swiped a hand across his eyes with a sniffle. “Jesus, you’re
uglier than I remember.”

Hez’s face crumpled, and he clutched Lynch in a fierce hug.
“God…it’s so good to see you, man,” he croaked.

“You too, brother,” Lynch mumbled into his shoulder. “You
too.”

Hez eased away and brushed his thumbs across Lynch’s wet
cheeks. “Fuck…I need a beer.”

Lynch choked out a half chuckle, half sob. “I need a whole
fucking keg.”

Rolo slung an arm over each of their shoulders. “Let’s go
take care of that.” He ushered them through the kitchen and into the back yard.

An extra-long table, surrounded with a mishmash of lawn
chairs and covered with a red and white checkered tablecloth, dominated the
grass while a keg sat on the edge of the patio. The charred aroma of cooking
meat saturated the air, whetting Lynch’s appetite. Charlotte and Dawn, two old
ladies who’d been with the Streeters since before he was born, manned the
barbeques. Past the “ques” were card tables laden with every salad and side
dish known to man.

And desserts. Good God, the desserts.

His mom hadn’t relinquished control of either Jarvis or
Newman and they patiently stood by as she introduced them to everyone. A small
smile touched his lips. He’d given the agents fair warning his mom didn’t take
no for an answer.

Another horde of well-wishers swamped Lynch, with more
embraces and a few cheek kisses. Rolo filled plastic cups from the tap. He
handed one to Lynch and Hez then lifted his own in the air. “A toast!” the
president bellowed.

Other cups rose.

Rolo looked at Lynch. “To coming home.”

A chorus of “coming home” echoed. Lynch drained his glass in
two gulps. God, he’d forgotten how good beer tasted. Since he hadn’t eaten
since lunch, the alcohol hit his system with a splash. He wiped the foam off
his lip and held his empty out to Rolo. Chuckling, the president poured him
another.

Lynch looked around the yard. It looked…smaller somehow.
Smaller and different. Yet the same. Just like Stardust.

He coughed the heaviness from his throat. “Where’s Flyer?”

It killed him to ask, knowing the answer, but to not
question the absence of the VP would cause suspicion. And Jarvis instructed him
to act normally.

Rolo’s cheerful bearing dipped. He handed a fresh beer to
Lynch. “Flyer…he, ah…left us, son.”

“Left? Left to go where?”

Rolo rubbed the side of his nose. “He needed to go…ah…to
Idaho to visit his pops.”

“Or so he claimed.” Bitterness rang in Hez’s voice.

Lynch cocked his head. “I don’t understand. What happened?”

Hez turned away, his mouth in a tight line, and swallowed
more beer. Lynch looked at Rolo.

The president blew out a breath. “It was maybe a month after
Flyer left when he sent a text to your ma. Said he’d been seeing someone else.
For months. That they went to Idaho together and that he…wasn’t coming back.”

Lynch pretended outrage. “What the fuck?”

“That’s right,” Hez spat out. “A goddamn Dear John text…you
believe that shit? Fucking bastard. It tore your momma up bad, man. Real bad.”

“Why that lying, cheating…fucker.” Lynch hoped he’d nailed
the right tone of indignation. “When the fuck was this?”

“Last Halloween,” Rolo responded.

With a disgusted grunt, Lynch drank his beer, covertly
peering at the president over the rim. Rolo sounded…sad. Not enraged like he
should if a member actually
had
walked out on the Streeters. You didn’t
get to just walk away. Not without blood. Blood in, blood out. That’s the
motto. If you wanted to leave, you had to pay a price. A very stiff price. One
Lynch never could’ve paid…

“You went after Flyer?” he asked.

“Hell yes,” Hez snapped. “Junkyard and Tre went after him.”

“Junkyard and Tre?”

“Junkyard Taylor and Tre Olsen,” Hez answered. “Good guys,
especially Tre. He got patched in a few years back. He rolled his bike—”

“Enough,” Rolo said, authority edged his voice. “Edie will
kick all our asses if she hears us talking about this.
This is a party
,
goddamn it.” He topped off the cups. “There’ll be time enough later to catch up
on all the club shit.”

Lynch eyed the president. First he wasn’t infuriated by
Flyer’s apparent desertion of the club and his mom, and now he didn’t want to
discuss it? Rather than press the point, he decided to let it drop. For now.

He turned and two men he didn’t recognize, but both wearing
Streeter cuts, sauntered up. A red haze blanketed his vision. The shorter of
the two sported the VP patch on his jacket.

“So you’re the prodigal son who’s come home, eh?” the short
one said with a snicker. “Name’s Junkyard Taylor. This here’s Bowyer.” He held
out his hand. “Congrats on getting out.”

Lynch’s scalp tingled like the first time he walked into the
prison shower. Tats covered Junkyard and Bowyer’s exposed forearms and necks.
Instinct said they were not to be trusted. Were these two somehow involved in
Flyer’s death?

Rather than shake hands, Lynch drained his glass in a gulp
then burped. Loudly.

The new VP lowered his arm, his gaze narrowing. “You got a
problem, boy?”

Though the same height, Junkyard had a wiry build and didn’t
appear as muscular as Lynch. With gray streaking his reddish ponytail, Lynch
doubted he’d have trouble taking him. By contrast, Bowyer was big and bald and
kinda dumb-looking.
He
could be trouble.

Lynch rolled his shoulders with a lazy shrug. “No…just want
to enjoy the party with my brothers.”

Junkyard cocked his head. “You don’t think I’m your
brother?”

Lynch handed his empty cup to Hez. “Grab me another, will
ya, brother?”

“Uh…sure…” But Hez didn’t move from Lynch’s side.

Junkyard canted forward. “I’m waiting for an answer, boy.
Don’t you think we’re brothers?”

“How should I know?” Lynch answered. “Just met you two
seconds ago. You could be a lying, cheating, no-good motherfucker as far as I
know.”

A twitch flickered at the corner of Junkyard’s eye. “Someone
should teach you manners.”

Lynch smiled a toothy grin. “And who’d do that? You?”

A slow nasty smile spread across the VP’s face. “No. Him.”

Junkyard stepped back as Bowyer advanced. Lynch tensed,
ready for a charge, his hands balled into fists.

Rolo moved in front of Lynch. “Enough of this shit. Go cool
off, Junkyard.” He grabbed the back of Lynch’s shirt. “You, come with me.” He
yanked Lynch to a vacant corner of the yard then released him. Hez trailed
behind.

 “What the fuck is wrong with you?” the president demanded.

 Lynch adjusted his shirt. “Nuthin’.”

“Like hell nuthin’,” Rolo snapped. “You know better than to
diss club officers.”

“But
I
don’t know Junkyard.”

“But
I
do. Him and Bowyer.” Rolo crossed his arms
over his barrel chest. “Since when is my vouch not good enough for you?”